"Dade, by thunder!" he exclaimed. McHale looked down thoughtfully at the dead man.
"I'm sure glad it was him," he observed. "I reckon that settles this feud business. That's why them fellers pulled out. It was his war, and when he got downed they didn't see no sense carryin' it on."
"Well, they might have buried him, anyway," Sandy grumbled.
"Maybe they figured you'd want to peel off his scalp," said McHale, with mild sarcasm. "I'm sure willing to take a little trouble like buryin' Dade."
"So'm I," Sandy admitted, replacing the blanket. "I guess we're pretty lucky. Come on while I rustle some grub. We want to pull out of here. You've got to get to a doctor as soon as you can."
They were eating breakfast when Casey, Farwell, the sheriff, and Simon rode into the basin, causing Sandy to snatch up his rifle under the impression that their assailants were returning. The four had made the best time they could, but had been at a loss to know the exact point until Sandy's farewell fusillade.
"You sure missed a heap of fun, Casey," said McHale.
"Well, some of it didn't miss you," said Casey. "I'm blame sorry about that arm, Tom. It'll be a tough ride for you."
"I'm able for it, I reckon. I wish you'd run into them fellers."
"Never saw hair nor hide of them. Just as well, maybe. Now, Tom, this is Sheriff Dove. He wants you, and I think he wants Sandy. I told him that you both had too much sense to make things hard for him."